


Power Shoes

by valantha



Series: LJ prompt [17]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen, LJ 60 prompts in 60 days, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julia Portia Neville: wife, survivor, mother, and paralegal. Badass Knight of the Republic. This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: Achilles’ Heel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power Shoes

Julia stepped out of her robe, letting the warm and oh so slightly threadbare robe pool at her feet. She studied her wardrobe. Clothes were her armor, and she needed to be properly outfitted for this next appointment.

First: underwear. The proper pair of panties was essential. The proper pair of panties fortified you from the ground up. There was a certain strut you could only obtain when wearing the right pair of panties. Julia grabbed a red thong. It shouted: _this is my body, and I will share it with whomever I so chose. I am a survivor_.

Now, a good bra. Good bras were hard to find these days, even for an officer’s wife. Even for an officer’s wife drawing on a Captain’s hazard pay. Julia selected a skin-toned lacey number. It was a bit gauche to wear underwear that didn’t match, but everything had gotten a bit lax post-Blackout. And very few bras provided the supported she needed. The support she needed to defy gravity and biology. Her breasts had nursed her two sons: one robust with curly hair and bronze skin, one sickly with red hair and jaundiced skin.

Once her base-layer – her gambeson – was on, Julia scrutinized her dresses. No black. No evening wear. Ah. Julia pulled out a navy blue pencil skirt with a matching blouse. Perfect. Slipping on the hugging skirt sent Julia’s mind flashing back, back before The Blackout, back before Jason, back to when she was a paralegal. She girded herself with that sense of order, control, predictability.

Julia wriggled into the heavily darted blouse and adjusted it until it fit like a second skin. She walked over to her vanity table and examined the effect. This was her chainmail hauberk. It was perfect – showcasing and concealing, revealing and protecting.

Julia slipped a slim gold chain over her neck – an apology gift from Tom from the first year of his wild-Matheson hunt. This was her gorget, armoring her in Tom’s love and reminding her of the reason she was doing this all. Then Julia began applying foundation, rouge, eyeliner, and lipstick; her helm. Julia primped her hair in the mirror. Julia hitched up her pencil skirt and buckled on a beautifully worked scabbard that held a wickedly sharp dagger – a Mother’s Day gift from Jason. _Almost done_.

Julia walked over to her shoe cabinet and clucked at the disreputable state of most of her shoes. Walking over the cobblestone streets of Philly, or even worse through stable yards, did awful things to her selection of pumps. And Sarah was ill-equipped to deal with the daily wear and tear they took. She selected a pair of fawn stilettos. Fawn was a neutral color; they were in better shape than many of her others, yet they weren’t as formal as her new black pumps.  These were her knight’s spurs. They elevated her already tall 5’ 9” frame to imposing heights, lifted her above the rabble. Allowed her to look down on most men – President Monroe and Captain Baker being two pertinent exceptions.

In heels, Julia felt beautiful, invulnerable, organized, and professional. She wore heels proudly the day Tom was promoted to First Lieutenant. She wore heels confidently while she worked to defend the innocent – or at least helped those who did. She hadn’t worn heels when they fled Allentown, heading for the supposedly safe woods. She hadn’t worn heels when she was an active part of the PTA, or when she watched over Jason’s playgroup. She was no June Cleaver. Nor was she Ginger Rogers to do every thing Fred Astaire did backwards and in high heels. Sometimes heels were sources of strength and sometimes they were vulnerabilities. Heels had their time and their place. And that included now.

Armored head-to-toe in powerful, formal, and (don’t forget) sleekly elegant attire, Julia was ready for her meeting with President Monroe. Her son Jason didn’t deserve to serve in some backwater border post. If Tom was around, he’d fight for him, but since Monroe had sent him on a 'mission of great importance,' it was her job to ensure Jason would get duties that would give him a chance to shine. Give him the chance to blast up through the ranks and secure a good – safe – position for himself in the Republic. She was ready, and she strutted out of her dressing room, head held high.


End file.
